


37

by lemonsorbae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 06:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: It is my tiny son’s birthday so here is a fic about Dean from Cas’ POV.SPN verse. 2k. NSFW.





	37

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted to tumblr Jan. 24th, 2016

Castiel doesn’t have much to call his own. He’d blame it on his Fall, say he lost everything when he lost his grace, the power of his wings, the connection to his brothers and sisters, but he didn’t have much before then either; a sword and a trench coat, but even the later was never really his.

So it is curious that now, now after he’s lost so much, so much of who he was, the things that made him a wrathful, fearful warrior of God, he feels like he has much more. Because he has a home now, a permanent place to return to if ever he is lost, and he has people, two of the most important people, in fact, in all of existence.

There is Sam, kind, good-hearted, brave Sam who has taught Castiel some of the finer things in life, where to find the best first edition books, how to get the most out of what little sleep hunters can steal, that it is okay to want something for others even if it isn’t what is best for yourself. And there is Dean. Dean who loves fiercely, who is good and kind at the very core of his soul, and who has given Castiel all of himself, even when Dean didn’t think that was possible.

Dean who is the sun and the moon, the earth and sky.

Dean, who is 37 today.

In all honesty, there were times Castiel wasn’t sure Dean would see 37. It was when times were bleak, bleaker than normal, when life and mortality teetered on the thinnest of threads. Even just a year ago, there were moments of weakness, flickers of time when Castiel feared Dean’s body would out-live them all, but his soul would not. Castiel is ashamed to admit he experienced such weakness, but it was never because of a lack of faith in Dean so much as it was a seemingly impending fate.

But now the man - and he is nothing but a man now, sweet, fragile humanity the only thing pounding in his veins - is asleep next to Castiel, warmth radiating from his body, and chest rising and falling with breath, breaths Castiel was not sure the hunter would ever take.

He counts them,  _one, two, three, four…_  His hand on Dean’s chest, his eyes hugging the lines in Dean’s face. There are more of them now than when Castiel first cradled the man’s soul in Hell, some are for Sam, some of them are for Dean, and a few of them are even for Castiel himself; but Castiel has always been a lover of weathered beauty, and Dean holds more beauty in the contours of his aging face than any ocean, or mountain Castiel has ever seen.

Castiel reaches out, glides a thumb over one of Dean’s freckled cheekbones. There are more of those, too,  _freckles_. And perhaps the notion of angel kisses is true, or maybe they’ve also come with age, but Castiel marvels at knowing each one, having had the pleasure of studying Dean’s face for enough years now to have learned them all.

In his sleep, Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s where it rests on Dean’s chest and he slots their fingers together. Dean’s hands are calloused from work, from having a gun in his hand since he was six years old, from changing motor oil, and wielding knives, from saving, from loving. He puts so much of himself into his hands, and Castiel can feel every bit of that in the swirls of his fingertips and the creases of his knuckles.

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand once and watches the thick line of the man’s lashes flutter minutely. Even in sleep Dean’s body responds accordingly to Castiel’s ministrations, like a finely tuned instrument only Castiel knows how to play. He leans in, presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, his eyelids, and nose.

“ _You’re beautiful,_ ” he whispers into the bow of Dean’s lips. “ _So beautiful._ ”

Dean shifts closer, eliminates what little space was between them, and drapes an arm over Castiel’s ribs, his hand falling warm on Castiel’s back. He hums when their bare skin meets, loose limbed and content just to lie and bask. If ever Castiel is feeling low on life, low on morale, and will, Dean is always there to fill him up with his smile, and his faith, and his touch so tender it’s a wonder Castiel can feel it at all. He’s like light in that way, creeping out over shadowed crevices, filling them up until all the darkness is gone. Castiel absorbs that light now, everything Dean’s laid out for him to  _take, and take, and take,_  never asking for anything in return, but giving the most important thing he could possibly give when he takes what Castiel offers, too.  

Castiel fits his hand to the cut of Dean’s jaw, light scratch of stubble catching on his palm, and he draws Dean in until their lips meet, slow, gentle, practiced. Dean sighs into the kiss, eyes still closed, body still loose with sleep. Castiel slots his knee between Dean’s, tangles their legs together and breathes his adoration into Dean’s mouth.

Dean’s fingers curl against Castiel’s back, the light pressure of his nails sending goosebumps alighting on Castiel’s skin. Despite the countless times they’ve done this, the feeling of his skin rising in anticipation to meet Dean’s touch is still a new one, one he delights in, like even without being told, his body will always answer Dean’s.

Castiel kisses the man again, this time with his eyes shut tight, reveling in the feel of Dean waking. He’s lost count of their kisses, some stolen in early mornings such as this, others shared with adrenaline coursing through them after a successful hunt, but every time feels like the first time, like there’s no one else in the world but them, every time feels like falling and knowing Dean will be there to catch him. (And he does, over, and over, and over again.)

Dean sighs a second time.

“Are you awake?” Castiel murmurs, letting his fingers slide over the shell of Dean’s ear and down the column of his neck. He nudges between Dean’s legs with his knee, and Dean sucks in a small gasp.

“Am now,” he says, voice thick and rough.

Castiel kisses him again, then pushes at Dean’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back and hovering over him on all fours.

“Morning,” Dean says, one corner of his lips tugging up into a half smile.

Castiel blinks down at him, studies the indentations his pillow left behind on his cheek, his hair poking out in every which way, eyes hazy and half lidded. He remembers the first time he’d touched Dean, grace meeting soul in the firey pits of Hell, remembers the way Dean had clung to Castiel’s light, his power. 

Every corner of Castiel’s being had pulsed with an unfamiliar recognition, a longing for something he didn’t understand. He’d felt the goodness in Dean; even after 40 years of blood and torture, his soul still craved truth, redemption, and it was like Castiel was seeing humanity for the first time.

Then there were the words,  _Dean Winchester is saved._  They’d echoed throughout all of existence, a victory cry like none other Castiel had ever heard, and that is when Castiel knew Dean was someone important. Maybe not in the sense his brothers and sisters had thought him to be, but in a way that was so much more.

Dean cups Castiel’s arm and rubs up and down in light strokes. “You okay?” He asks.

Castiel smiles down at him. “Yes. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.” Castiel bends until his lips are closing over Dean’s, and Dean’s hands are sliding up into the tangles of Castiel’s bedhead. They kiss, languid, until Castiel pulls away, moves his mouth to the notch of Dean’s jaw, the hollow of his throat, and over the rise of one pectoral than the other. Dean’s hands come to settle on Castiel’s ribs until Castiel moves lower, down the line of his sternum, and over the softness of his belly, open mouthed kisses that say all the words Castiel can never find a voice for. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s box briefs and tugs until they’re sliding down the hunter’s thighs and tangling around his feet. Dean kicks them off as Castiel surveys the rest of his body with something almost akin to hunger.

“When I held your soul in my grace,” he says, brushing his lips along Dean’s pelvic bone, “you healed something in me. I did not know I was broken, I was not aware of the cracks I had, until you filled them up.”

“ _Cas._ ” His name comes out in a breath, and Castiel’s heart leaps in his chest. Dean’s name has always felt like a prayer, a lifeline, but hearing his own name on Dean’s lips is a whole different experience entirely, like he means something to someone, like he has purpose.

Castiel moves to bite gently at the meat of Dean’s thighs, then follows with a soothing swipe of his tongue. “You continue to heal me every day, Dean. Your eyes on mine, your hands on me. I feel more alive and whole than I ever did as an angel.” His fingers trip over Dean’s knees, skate along his shins, and Castiel presses a soft kiss to each ankle before he’s kissing Dean’s lips, more hurried and persistent than before.

“You were the Light I never felt in Heaven.”

It’s taken years for Dean not to shy away from such words, always brushing them off with a glance at the floor, or eyes sliding away from Castiel’s, but slowly something has changed within the man, his heart is more open, his walls more weak.

Castiel never fails to take advantage of that.

When Castiel feels as if he’ll burst lest he worships every last inch of Dean, he moves to tug at Dean’s earlobe with his teeth then reaches for the lube. He works Dean open with praises tumbling from his lips, his words bleeding from English to Enochian, then every other language he can think of that contains the proper words to describe Dean’s resplendence.

“Cas,” Dean breathes again, and Castiel knows Dean’s ready, his body wound tight, like a wire ready to snap.

Castiel settles Dean with a kiss to his thigh, then lines himself up and slides inside the hunter, positioning himself above Dean where he can watch the man’s eyelids flutter in pleasure, his lips part in anticipation. Warmth, and love, and need washing over his face in waves that roll, and roll, and roll.

“I love you,” Castiel says, “Every last inch of you, inside and out, your shoulders, and your eyes, your hands, and lips, your heart, and all that is good within you, everything that loves me back, I love you.”

“Cas,” Dean manages, the only word Castiel needs to hear. He watches as Dean’s body goes taut then his eyes spark with relief and his mouth falls open, breathing Castiel’s name over, and over, and over again.

Castiel follows him over the edge, coming inside Dean with a hard kiss to the man’s lips, and Dean holds him, holds them together as he breathes into Castiel’s hair heavy and sated.

When he’s caught his breath, Dean lets out a laugh. “Best wake up call ever,” he says around the kisses Castiel’s peppering about his face, his lips, and cheeks, and nose, and chin.

Castiel smiles, drinks Dean in, quenching the constant thirst he has for the man. “Happy birthday.” he says.

Dean grins, loose and lazy. “Can my birthday wish be for a round two?”

Castiel chuckles, noses along Dean’s jaw line. “Of course.”

“Awesome.”

They lie there for a long time, talking quietly, then when they’re both ready, marveling at the feeling of just being together, breathing and moving as one, a dance they’ve come to know so well.

And after Dean has slipped off again, dozing with blankets pooled round his waist and arms reaching for Castiel as his eyelids slide closed, Castiel kisses the palms of Dean’s hands, sends a silent prayer to Mary Winchester, thanking her for giving the world her son. Thanking her for giving Castiel such a wonderful man to love. Because Dean may not be the most important man in the universe, but he’s the most important man in Castiel’s universe, and because Castiel has Dean, he has everything.


End file.
